It’s
intricate—this inner needle, this chime of events; this lawyer’s instinct, this
psych’s touch, this outward probing; but not all of me, as not all of you, but
a fragment of us. I stood at essence, this investigation, this inner policeman;
to see your eyes—so distant as aloof, this beige intimacy. We dance for
sunrise, at inner conflicts, swirling in ecstasy. It’s pure resistance, as to
channel divinity, this conflicting nature; where darkness is light, this light
of darkness, this godly paradox. I ponder eyes, something unseen, this chilly
actress; wherewith, are fevers, as sudden appearance, staring at yesterdays’
self. I thought us free, to see us chained, gazing at poetry: this savage life,
this crystal flux, this feral explosion; but torn to fire, our inner passion,
this dangling mistletoe; herewith, a subtlety, as something massive, to chain a
future; but true to ask, Are you frantic,
as for keeping aloneness? It mustn’t be real, this flaming kiln, as refined
for purpose; where words are futile, as sighs relieve—one chanting with wolves.
I see a psych, as charged as generators, spinning in loneness. We extend
waters, as tortured these lakes, a series of volts; as large as planets, as
thrust to hearts, therewith, are fireworks; to chance forever, this inner
zeitgeist, this telepathic phantom; in which are dreams, even delusions,
favored by madness; as close to breathe, these abdomen ghosts, pulling at an
inner nature; as lived an earthquake, to cease our hearts, frowning as we
laugh. It mustn’t be real, this outward spirit, to possess our souls; where
life’s intense, this sudden hurricane, to uplift a secret nation.
